


One for Everybody

by tjmystic



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Drunken Confessions, F/M, Love Confessions, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-16 00:13:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13042491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjmystic/pseuds/tjmystic
Summary: A little personal backstory - I avoided the Frank/Karen bandwagon like the plague.  For one, I shipped Karen with Matt, so Frank was out of the question (and Elektra needed to die - twice wasn't enough).  Besides, Frank's entire purpose for being was to avenge his dead wife and children.  To me, that didn't seem like the kind of guy who wanted a second chance at love.  And, if I'm being completely honest with myself, I'm a traditional romantic - I like the idea, even in fiction, that there's only one person out there for everybody.  That one person for Frank had to be Maria - that was how it worked in my brain.And then I watched The Punisher, and then they gave us more of Frank and Karen, and damnit I really didn't want to ship them, but here I am.  Here.  I.  Am.  (Also, they kept shoving Elektra at Matt, and he didn't seem to mind it, so… whatcha gonna do?)Still, I can't see Frank and Karen having a relationship without airing out their ghosts.  So, without further ado, here is the fic I promised myself I would never write or read.  You're welcome.  Motherfuckers.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter is rated T, maybe M for a brief gory bit. The explicit stuff won't happen till chapter 3.

The first time he brought it up was a week after he officially became Pete Castiglione. 

It was a stupid question, had absolutely nothing to do with what they were talking about - Lieberman, specifically, and how he and his family were doing - but they were in a diner.  A different diner, not the same one as last year, but a diner all the same.  He pretended that that, and nothing else, was the reason the thought grabbed hold of his mind and wouldn't let go.

Either way, when Karen turned back to him after ordering another coffee, he blurted out,

"What ever happened with that guy?"

Karen cocked her head to the side, eyes narrowed into thin little slits.  "What guy?"

"You know, the lawyer."  Frank waved his fork full of eggs.  "Murdock."

Her lips pursed, those eyes dropping to the table.  A foot away from him, her fingers trickled up her arm, tugging briefly at her sleeve.  

"Matt and I… we didn't really work out," she finally mumbled.

It felt like a weight was removed from his chest.  He didn't evaluate why.  Instead, he covered it with a dry chuckle.  "Never pulled his damn head out of his ass, then?"

She nodded vigorously.  For a moment, just a split second, she looked like she might laugh.  Then that darkness, the one he was more than familiar with, crept up her face. 

"He died," she said.  "A few months ago, in the explosion at Midland Circle."

"Shit, Karen."  Frank set down his fork.  She wouldn't quite meet his eyes.  "That's… Christ, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean - "

Her eyes welled up, but she shook her head and turned away.  He suddenly remembered the black she was wearing when he saw her on the sidewalk.  All black.  Shit. 

"It's okay," she muttered.  "You didn't know.  It's getting… it's getting easier.  Really.  I shouldn't complain, it's nothing like what happened to you.  We were never even together."

The waitress came back with the coffee, and Karen grabbed it immediately.  Across the table, Frank shook his head, too.  Karen was good at a whole damn lot of things, but lying wasn't one of them.

That in mind, he didn't know if her answer brought him any relief.

 

 

The second time it came up was Curtis's birthday.

Curt held a private party at his apartment - a new one way out in the Bronx, with bulletproof glass and bars on the window.  Frank couldn't say he blamed him.

It was just a few guys from the group and their families.  One guy brought his wife.  Another brought his teenage sons.  Another actually brought his boyfriend.

Frank brought himself and a six-pack of that German shit he knew Curtis liked.  By the end of the night, he regretted doing even that much. 

"So," Curtis started, hobbling over to him on a leg that hadn't fit right in weeks, "didn't bring your girlfriend, huh?"

Frank's chest thudded like a drum.

_There he is!  Boom, boom, boom!  Look at that.  Oh, you're really quite something!_

Frank shook his head.  For the moment, Agent Orange disappeared. 

Steadily, he took a sip of his own beer - American.  "I don't know what the hell you're talking about, Curtis."

Curtis laughed, because of course he did.  Frank took another sip.

"Come on, man, we all know better than that."  He glanced at the other people still milling around in his living room, then pulled up a chair next to Frank's.  "The woman at the paper.  Karen."

Frank didn't even look at him.  "I'm gonna wring Lieberman's neck."

Again, Curtis laughed.  It occurred to him that maybe it was a good thing Curt was so happy, even if it was at his expense. 

"He didn't have to tell me nothing, _Pete_ ," he said, drawing out the fake name with a wink.  "You read her column every week before group.  Don't think I ain't noticed." 

Frank didn't have anything to say to that.  He filled the silence by slamming his now-empty bottle on the table and grabbing another one.

Beside him, Curtis shrugged dramatically and leaned back in his chair. 

"Well, if you aren't seeing her, maybe I'll take a shot at it."

This time, it was Frank who laughed.  "Don't even think about it, man.  She would chew you up and spit you out like dog food."

"Hey, maybe that's how I like it these days."

Frank just managed not to punch him.  It didn't escape Curt's notice, though, based on that smug-ass grin he shot him.  Frank gritted his teeth and looked at his lap.  Something in his expression must have changed, though, or maybe Curtis was just getting sick of being a nosy asshole (unlikely, he thought).  Whatever the reason, the smirk slid off Curt's face, replaced by that somber look he knew so well now from group.  Frank couldn't decide which one he hated worse. 

"Hey, man, I'm just messing with you."  He leaned forward to pat Frank's knee.  When Frank didn't answer, or look up, he scooted a little closer.  "Seriously, what's going on with you two?  Lieberman made it sound like you go on dates and shit all the time."

Frank shook his head.  Yeah, Lieberman was definitely getting a visit.

"It's not like that, man."

"Then what is it like?  Level with me, Frank."  The name was whispered, so quiet that even Frank barely heard it.  "We've talked about this, relationships are important if you're gonna - "

"Curtis, she's hung up on somebody else."

That shut him up.  For a second, anyway.  Then Curtis did that thing where he exhaled real slow and shook his head.

"Does he want her back?" he muttered.  "Better yet, what kind of man is he?  I mean, have you met him?"

"Yeah, but… it's complicated."

"Brother, nothing with you _isn't_ complicated.  I just want to know if he's good for her, or if - "

"He's dead."

Curtis's eyebrow, the one not mangled up with bruises, shot up his forehead.  Frank sighed and took another chug in his beer.

"She was wearing all black when I saw her on the street.  And a crucifix necklace.  Didn't think anything of it at the time, but now…" 

He thought of a man on a rooftop, crossing his chest, offering to kill despite everything he stood for.  He chuckled dryly and shook his head.

"Dude was religious.  Karen not so much.  She'd never wear one of those on her own.  I shoulda noticed."  He finished his beer and slammed it down next to the other empty.  "She still wears it."

"That doesn't have to mean anything."

Frank raised an eyebrow at him.  "Yeah.  It kinda does.  I know better than anybody what people do when they can't let go."

"You also know better than anybody that you can't go around chasing ghosts.  And I think we both know that it ain't _her_ ghosts that got you so hung up."

He didn't have an answer to that one.

The party dwindled away shortly after that.  Frank left before anyone but Curtis could really miss him - not that they would - promising vaguely that they'd get together again soon.

If he caught a blur of red across the rooftops on his walk home, he pretended not to notice.

 

 

It was shortly after that that he had his first nightmare. 

For the most part, they'd gone away.  Frank hated pills, before and after the war.  He wouldn't even take so much as a damn Tylenol.  But if he was really trying to "reintegrate into society" - and he promised Curtis, Karen, and even Lieberman that he was - then some things needed to change.  Sleeping pills were one of them. 

Most of the time, they just meant sleep - no dreams, just sleep.  One of the many reasons he decided he needed to start taking them.  But this night… this night was different.

He was in a hotel room.  That was how it started.  Not the one he lived in two months ago, not the one with the senator, just some random ass hotel room.  He moved with an ease, a comfort, he hadn't known in years, a grace like he wasn't carrying around all the ghosts in his head.  Like he was truly alone for once.

But he wasn't alone.

He was with Karen. 

She wasn't wearing black.  She wasn't wearing that damn cross.  She was wearing a pink shirt and a dark sweater - the same outfit she had on when he first saw her.  Not when he was shooting that weasel Grotto, but when she came to see him in the hospital.  The first time he really _saw_ her.

He smiled - God, when was the last time he really smiled, even in a dream? - and walked toward her.  She smiled back, letting the sweater fall off her arms and replacing it with him.  She felt so small for a woman so tall.

She didn't say anything as she wrapped her arms around his waist, swaying with him to music that didn't exist even in his head.  Her breath was warm on his shoulder, her hair tickling his neck.  He couldn't keep from kissing the top of her head if he tried.  She laughed, and he spun her out like they were on some network dancing show.  Her hand was warm in his.

Her body curled in as she returned to him, her hair whipping around her head.  But it was brown now, not blonde.  She was a head and a half shorter.  Her eyes looked like they could tear him apart.  And there was a gaping, red hole in the center of her face.

Frank woke up shouting, fingers digging so hard into the bedsheets that they ripped.  The walls grabbed hold of him and choked, pulsing and spinning and blurring.  He could hear the gunshots, the screaming, the sirens.  He was going to suffocate.  From a distance, Curtis came to him, saying, _You got to breathe through these, man.  These fucking things suffocate, so you gotta breathe._

He took a deep breath, and the room stopped flashing.  He wasn't in a hotel, he was in his apartment.  There wasn't any blood.  He was alone.

He didn’t walk to the sink, he ran.  The vomit burned his throat as it left him, more spit and whiskey than anything else.  But it kept coming.  It just kept coming.

He hadn't dreamed about Maria since he let go of her hand in the warehouse.

When he didn't think he had anything left in him, he took another deep breath and turned on the tap.  He let the cold water rinse everything clean before splashing some in his face.  Some hit the mirror, and he looked up to catch is reflection.  He didn't look like he'd seen a ghost, he looked like _he_ was the fucking ghost.

His body sunk to the floor.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

He didn't see Karen again for two weeks after that.  Christmas came and went.  Lieberman and Curtis both tried to get him to come to their houses with promises of homecooked food and liquor (and a joking offer to get to second base with Sarah, in Lieberman's case), but he passed.  Like Thanksgiving, the memory of Maria's baccala and his children's laughter wouldn't let him.

 

When he was awake, he was… well, "alright" was too strong of a word.  He'd made his peace with them when his heart stopped in the warehouse.  But he wasn't ready to start spending holidays with other people. 

 

Then, two days before New Year's, he found a bouquet of yellow roses in front of his door.  He was convinced it was a mistake until he saw the name "Pete" scrawled onto a note beside it in loopy lettering.  Still, he waited a solid thirty seconds before ripping it from the flowers and bringing it inside. 

 

_New Year's Eve, party for 2.  I'm following a lead in the neighborhood.  Put the flowers in your window by midnight if you plan on coming.  Lots of liquor, no champagne.  -Karen_

 

Frank snorted to himself.  She was a smartass, Karen. 

 

He looked around the apartment - as far as his "kitchen" went, all he had was a microwave and a fridge - until he landed on a mostly clean plastic cup.  It would have to do.  He filled the thing with water, dropped his pocket knife into the bottom to weigh it down, and stuffed the flowers in as best he could.  They didn't fall over. 

 

His eyes wandered over to the window before he released the cup with a grunt.  What was he doing?  He'd turned down everyone else for Christmas, New Year's shouldn't be any different.  What made her so special?

 

He almost laughed at himself.  Yeah, that one didn't even deserve an answer.  His body gave him one anyway, though, his eyes twitching over to his unmade mattress.  Even from the "kitchen", the sweat stains were visible.

 

The nightmares hadn't stopped.  If anything, they'd gotten worse.  Monday, Karen leaned in to kiss him, just like she had in the elevator.  Tuesday, she held his hand and smiled.  Wednesday, they went dancing again.  All three times, her hair went brown the moment he blinked, and he was left cradling the body of his dead wife.  He didn't take any sleeping pills for the next two nights, but that made everything worse.  He didn't remember those dreams, but he did remember the screams and cold sweat that woke him up. 

 

He wasn't an idiot.  He didn't need to take a frickin' four-year course on "symbolism" or some bullshit to know what his dreams were telling him.  The fact that he could go days at a time - while awake - without thinking of Maria or the kids was more than enough to confirm his suspicions.  Coming to terms with it, though, getting around to talking about it…

 

He looked down at the note, barely big enough to fill his palm.  He shouldn't do this.  Not yet.  He needed to talk to her about things, figure out where she stood.  Figure out _where_ he stood.  Jumping into the liquor bottle with her would make that a lot more difficult. 

 

Again, his eyes flickered to the window.  It was getting dark.

 

Before he went to sleep, he moved his lamp closer to the curtains.  From the street three stories down, everyone could see the yellow roses.

 

 

 

 

Karen didn't disappoint.

 

True to her word, there wasn't a glass of champagne in sight.  When he got there at 10:00 - he didn't want to be a dick and come too early, but he didn't want to be a dick by coming too late, either - she led him over to a table stacked with whiskey, bourbon, and beer.  The TV was already tuned to some New Year's special, but she turned it down low enough that they could just talk. 

 

She was pretty tonight.  Real pretty.  Not that she wasn't always, but he could tell that she'd really put something into it tonight.  Her hair was glossy and smooth, her feet stuffed into a pair of firetruck red pumps that he figured she couldn't wear with too many men.  He didn't want to think of the implications of that (or the fact that he, too, had slid himself into the best pair of jeans he owned and actually bought a new shirt), so he started pouring the drinks right away.  After just two, the nerves started to go away, and the conversation came easy.  He didn't know why he'd suspected otherwise - talking was one thing Karen made him good at.

 

After telling him about a new friend of hers, some woman named Trish who ran a radio station, Karen stood to her feet to get more beer from the fridge.  He focused on the screen to keep from watching her walk away in that tight blue skirt.  The TV flashed a title card with "11:47 - 13 minutes left!"  He blinked - had it already been two hours? - and looked down at the empty bottles on the table.  No wonder he was so relaxed.  The TV flashed again, bright neon lights from Times Square that he could see in the distance if he looked out the window.  Some pop-y singer was gyrating on stage, a blonde with a weird accent whose name he didn't know.  He thought he remembered Lisa liking her. 

 

He took another shot. 

 

Behind him, Karen reached over his shoulder and snatched the bottle.  It slid from his grip and into hers easily enough that their fingers touched.  He blamed it on the liquor.

 

"Switch to beer," she snickered.  "I think you've had twelve shots too many."

 

He looked over his shoulder at her with a lazy smile.  "Nah, I'm good for another five at least."

 

Karen shook her head and swapped his bottle for a beer.  He set it back on the table and poured another shot. 

 

"I know a woman who could give you a run for your money," she snickered.

 

She grabbed at the new bottle, smirking when he teasingly jerked it away from her before giving in.  "She a superhuman or something?"

 

"Depends on your definition."

 

He filled his glass to the top again, a little running off onto his thumb, and tossed it back.  "Well, super or not, I appreciate a woman who can handle her bourbon.  She like Turkey?"

 

Karen actually laughed at that, a pretty sound that made his insides squirm.  "I'll have to introduce  you.  I think you two might be soulmates."

 

And then she put her hand on his shoulder.  A jolt went up his spine that had nothing to do with the Jim he knocked back.  It wanted him to be angry - Karen could've used any word, and she picked "soulmate".  And she touched him.  Not a shift of their fingers, an honest-to-God, intentional touch.  He blinked to keep the brown hair and blood out of his eyes - he didn't need that.  Not now, not when he was on the uncomfortable side of drunk.

 

He turned a little so he could really look at her, face a little flushed from all the drinks and hair hanging over her ears from running  her hands through it.  His mouth went dry.  Fuck.  He was actually going to do this. 

 

"You, uh…"  Frank cleared his throat, then tried again.  "You believe that shit, Karen?"

 

"Believe what shit?"

 

"You know."  He poured himself another shot that he didn't drink for lack of something else to do with his hands.  "Soulmates."

 

She pursed her lips.  Yeah, that definitely wasn't what she was expecting him to ask.  He chewed on the inside of his mouth as she set aside the liquor and reached for a beer herself.  Her eyes wandered over to the photo in the corner, the one with her and the lawyers, and damnit that wasn't helping.  He opened his mouth, ready to tell her to just forget about it, when she answered.

 

"I probably did, at one point," she murmured.  "When I was a little girl and I got all my romantic advice from Disney.  But, like every little girl, I guess I just… grew up.  I realized that love is… it's a choice you make.  Not something set in the stars."

 

Frank shook his head and buried it in his hands.  They smelled like cheap beer and Karen's hand lotion.  Yeah, that wasn't helping, either. 

 

The cushions around him shifted, dipping at his side as Karen scooted closer.  Her hand returned to his shoulder.

 

"I take it that was the wrong answer," she muttered.

 

Frank dropped his hands and turned her way.  He might as well have gotten shot again, judging by her expression.  She was staring at him with that pretty, pouty mouth sucked in, her eyebrows drawn into a thin line beneath her forehead.

 

He snorted.  "No, not the wrong answer.  If you'd said any different, I'd think you were drunk or something."

 

Karen nudged him with her heel.  He smirked.

 

In front of them, the TV flashed again.  One minute to go. 

 

The couch cushions dipped again. 

 

"Do… do you believe in soulmates?"

 

He looked away from the screen.  She was closer now, almost on his cushion.  Her bottom lip was wedged between her teeth again.  He wanted to coax it out.  He couldn't blame that one on the liquor. 

 

He leaned a little closer himself, hovering over her shoulder.  Up close, he could see the edge of pink lip liner that hadn't come off on her glass.  He blinked.  Behind his eyelids, all he could see Maria's mouth.  She always painted her lips pink for their dates.  Even after they got married. 

 

His stomach churned.  He definitely couldn't blame that one on the liquor.

 

Frank wrenched himself away, his eyes landing on the TV just in time to see the ball drop.  In the distance, fireworks lit up the sky.  He clenched his fists at his sides and jumped to his feet.

 

"Frank?"

 

He walked around the coffee table, sober enough now that he didn't even trip, and grabbed his jacket.  The firework noise rang in his ears.  When he blinked, he saw an Afghani man with a knife, and a stone the size of a watermelon next to his crushed face.  He blinked again and saw Maria. 

 

"Frank, are you okay?"

 

For a moment, he stopped.  Karen was on her feet now, leaning halfway off the couch as if she wanted to come after him and didn't at the same time.  His heart stuttered in his chest. 

 

"Yeah," he lied.  "Yeah, just… time for me to head back."

 

His fingers fumbled on the knob, suddenly slick with sweat.  Behind him, Karen reached out, already moving to help him.  He yanked it open and walked into the hallway before she could get any closer than the bar in the kitchen.  His feet stopped long enough for him to look at her across his shoulder.

 

"Thanks, for…  Well, Happy New Year's, Karen."

 

She smiled at him.  Barely a smile, just a brief twitch of her lip.  But it was enough.  It was a choice she made. 

 

Fuck. 

 

"You too, Frank."

 

He snapped the door shut behind him, and waited for her to lock it before walking away.


End file.
